


Leather Jacket

by lasirene



Category: X-Men (Original Timeline Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Between Movies, Canon-Typical Violence, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Memory Loss, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Post-Canon, Secret Crush, Self-Discovery, Slow Burn, World Travel, but it takes years
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:48:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24409060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasirene/pseuds/lasirene
Summary: Logan is searching for answers to his past, in people, places, and things. When he stumbles across a friend, the enigmatic and charming Remy LeBeau, he manages to get a few of those answers, but nowhere near as many as he hoped. Now he's wandering the world, still searching. Yet his constant travelling keeps crossing paths with Remy, and with each encounter, Logan can't help but grow increasingly attached to his sole friend. But attachment can grow to so much more...
Relationships: Remy LeBeau & Logan (X-Men), Remy LeBeau/Logan (X-Men)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 71





	1. New Orleans

**Author's Note:**

> Yes this is a post X-Men Origins: Wolverine fic, and you can hate on the movie all you want, but it's the only canon material we have, and I'm running with it. This trope has been done tons of times, but I have ideas and I want to torture myself with years of slow burn.
> 
> As with all my X-Men stuff, this is a wild mix of mostly movies and some comics to fix things, fill in gaps, etc.
> 
> Marvel characters aren't mine, all the usual disclaimers and whatnot.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For once, his wandering leads to an answer.

He can’t say what the pull is. He’s wandered the world for at least a year, his mind an empty slate, driven only by a sense of not belonging, and the sense that he can find where he belongs if he searches long enough. The pull has dragged him everywhere – across America and Canada, to Europe and Japan, and back to America. And now it has pulled him south.

He hates the heat and the humidity, the way it makes his shirt stick to his back. He hates the parade of commercial flights he’s taken to get from place to place, and he hates the anxiety and terror they stir in the deep, instinctive parts of his brain even more. He hates that something has dragged him to this city of nightlife and noise. The only solace is that in New Orleans, he can carry alcohol wherever he damn well pleases, even if it doesn’t do a thing for him.

He’s floundering now that he’s in the city. Standing on Bourbon Street, all the sights and the music pouring into the street from every propped-open door overwhelm him. He doesn’t know where to go or what he’s looking for. It’s like this everywhere he feels drawn. He follows his gut wherever it leads him, and as soon as he reaches that unknown place, he doesn’t know what he’s there for.

He bounces from one bar to another to another, doing little more than skimming the crowds, looking for some nameless person or object, he doesn’t know what. The confusion frustrates him until his nerves are frayed. The claws tingle and itch in his arms, still only halfway under his control. He needs to be careful. If he gets too angry, they’ll slip right out in the middle of the crowd, and everything will go to Hell.

Desperate to relax, if only a little, he swerves into some other place and throws himself at the bar. It’s only after he’s got the taste of whiskey in his mouth that he realizes he really is unwinding, if only a little. He takes a closer look around, frowning at the almost familiar feeling settling in him. He nurses his drink, dwelling on the feeling, wondering what the importance of this bar is. He looks around slow and thoughtful. His eyes flicker back to a cluster of tables where some poker is being played, feeling a strong kick of déjà vu and not knowing what that means either. He turns back to his whiskey, savoring its burn in solitude and silence.

The solitude and silence don’t last long.

“Logan?”

He recognizes that as supposedly his name, but more importantly, he recognizes the voice. He hasn’t met a single familiar voice in all his wandering. He turns to it, unsurprised by the grinning youth wearing sunglasses. Before this moment, he wouldn’t have known the long, lanky kid if he’d passed him in the street. But he knows him now, knows that voice, and it sets something inside him at ease.

“Mind if I take a seat?” The New Orleans drawl colors each word, the same way it colored his name. He likes the sound of it, and so he nods.

The kid sits down next to him, all long legs and long arms. He calls for a glass of bourbon for himself. Once the drink is brought, Logan asks a question that’s bothering him. “What’s your name anyway?” He feels the answer is on the tip of his tongue. Something French sounding, isn’t it?

The other man turns his face, though his eyes are invisible behind the shades. “Still don’t remember ole Remy? I’m hurt, _mon ami_.”

He surprises himself by understanding the French. “We’re friends?”

“Well, ya didn’t try too hard t’kill me. In my book, that counts.”

He can feel his hopes being dashed, but he does his best not to let it show. The kid, Remy, picks up his glass of bourbon, still facing him.

“I’m sorry I don’t have much to give you, Logan. We met not long before what happened.”

“What happened?”

“Can’t say for sure. I brought my plane down and went to see if ya needed help. Which you did, I saved your ass. You sent me lookin’ for some kids, I saw ‘em get help, I went back to get you out. Came back to you wit’ two bullet holes in your head and you not recognizin’ me. Den you went your way and I went mine. I’m glad to see you didn’t get yourself killed in the meantime.”

Logan wants to point out that if he survived two bullets to the head, he’s bound to survive just about anything, but he doesn’t. He just glowers at his whiskey.

“So,” Remy drawls after a few more seconds of quiet, “what brings ya back to our fair city?” He lowers his sunglasses down his nose, revealing strange eyes; black sclera and scarlet pupils. The eyes seem to drink in the light around them, reflecting only a small portion. Logan can’t quite look away from them.

“You.” His answer is unsurprising. Now that he’s found him, he knows Remy is what he was looking for.

Remy grins again. “I’m flattered, Logan. Tell ya what.” He polishes off his drink and rises off the stool. When Logan follows him, he realizes the kid is taller than him. The Cajun’s eyes disappear behind the shades again as he pulls out some cash and sets it on the bar. “Come wit’ me.”

Logan doesn’t hesitate to follow him out into the street. Remy weaves through the crowds on Bourbon Street with admirable ease, leading away from the noise. As they head into the more residential parts of the French Quarter, Remy seems respects Logan’s gruff silence, for the moment at least. Logan follows at his side, glancing repeatedly at the balconies on the opposite side of the street. They’re strung with lights and full to bursting with potted plants – flowers and ferns and more. The humidity holds the scents of growing green and flowers. As they distance themselves from the heart of revelry, it grows quieter, and Logan feels the tightness in his shoulders ease.

Remy leads the way to a seemingly random building. He steps inside and produces a key to an apartment, urging Logan inside. It’s nice, a standard studio suite, though Logan can tell Remy doesn’t live in it full time. It smells of him – summery heat and spice, a hint of musk under it – but the scent isn’t overly strong. Remy produces cold beers. Logan sinks into a surprisingly comfortable chair and starts to oblige Remy’s seemingly innate need to talk. He tells him about the last two years, the places he’s been and the odd jobs he’s had, the cage fights he’s won, the endless travelling and searching. Talking about it now, it sounds sad and lonely. Remy doesn’t judge, though, talking in vague terms about himself. He seems to deal cards at the casino and some bars as a side job. His actual career remains nameless, but Logan gets the idea that it’s exciting and risky and means everything to the kid.

At one too many times of using the term, Remy finally fixes the misunderstanding. “I’m nineteen, _mec_ , ain’t been a kid for a long time.”

“Nineteen? And they let you in there?”

“Remy has his ways.” Vague again, but Logan is surprised by his own lack of frustration. The mystery has an enticing effect. The idea of earning the trust to peel back those layers has a certain appeal.

The conversation eventually winds down at some point past midnight. The exhaustion of his sporadic sleep schedule has finally caught up, and Logan is staring at nothing from his half-shut eyes. The Cajun somehow hauls Logan to the bed, not once complaining about his weight.

“Get some sleep,” Remy urges. Logan wants to protest, but the exhaustion drags at him too much. His eyes droop shut, and it all goes dark.

***

He wakes up shouting, thrashing, but this time something has him pinned. A voice cuts through his own cries: “Logan! Logan, stop, calm down!”

The voice snaps him out of the nightmare haze, and he stops abruptly, panting in the sudden aching quiet. The claws snap back into his arms so fast it hurts. Remy’s hands, long fingered and surprisingly strong, flex around his wrists. Logan can’t look at him, but he’s achingly aware of the knees squeezing his ribs, the weight and heat of the body pinning him down.

“ _Dieu_ ,” Remy says, slowly loosening his hands from his wrists. “You all right?”

“M’fine,” Logan says, his voice thick and hoarse. “Should be asking you that.”

“Remy’s fine. Quick reflexes.” Those long, fine fingers loosen, then stroke over the thin skin on the inside of his wrists. “Bad dreams?” He only nods once. Remy hums, hands moving down his arms until he reaches Logan’s shoulders. His hands turn magic then, massaging at the tension to try and dispel it. “Don’t wanna talk ‘bout ‘em?”

“No.” Logan doesn’t even know how to explain them; they make no sense. Nightmares of water and needles and people all around, watching him thrash and try to scream. Agony and heat and his heart racing like a runaway horse. It still hasn’t slowed completely.

Remy’s hand drifts to that thundering heart, pressing firm against his chest. Through the thin undershirt, Logan can feel the warmth of his skin. “It’s all right,” Remy murmurs, “I understand.” There’s something haunted in his whisper and in his strange eyes. Logan wonders what demons chase someone so young at night.

The Cajun starts kneading at his shoulders again. “You should try and sleep more. It’s only three.”

“I don’t know if I can.” The adrenaline has faded for the most part, but the effects are lingering. Those awful claws tingle in his arms, ready to spring out without warning.

Remy frowns. His hands turn warmer, the impromptu massage turning serious. Logan groans despite himself. It almost hurts, he’s so tense. “You really don’t know what’s good for ya. Sleep.” Remy’s voice leaves no room for argument, and the longer those hands work at him, the more relaxed Logan grows. He wants to fight it, knows it isn’t safe, but his eyes are already drifting shut again.


	2. Leather Jacket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan receives items he didn't know he'd lost.

The next time he wakes up, sunlight is streaming through the windows. He feels better, rested, refreshed. And hungry. Starving is maybe a better word.

Logan sits up, taking in the empty room. Remy’s nowhere to be seen – until the key turns in the lock and he steps through. The kid lights up as soon as he sees Logan awake. “Mornin’, _mec_. Feel okay?”

“Yeah. Is that food?”

“ _D’accord_. Beignets.” Remy sets the bag on the kitchen counter. “You just gonna sit in bed, or you gonna get your ass over here?”

Logan doesn’t protest. The beignets are light and sweet and still warm, and the powdered sugar coats his fingers. It’s far from a bad way to start the morning.

“You plannin’ on stickin’ around?” Remy asks after he’s licked the last trace of sugar from his fingers. “Or is it onward now dat you’ve checked up on li’l ole me?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere there’s gotta be answers, and I oughtta find ‘em.”

“Logan… It’s been two years. Have you thought dat maybe you ain’t gonna remember everythin’?”

He has, but he won’t admit it, and he won’t say how much the idea terrifies him. That he’s going to spend the rest of his life wandering, lost and confused. “I have to keep looking.” Logan doesn’t miss the slight slump in Remy’s shoulders. “But I suppose I don’t have to go just yet,” he tacks on. He’s been travelling almost nonstop since he woke up on that island. A break in the Big Easy doesn’t sound so bad.

Remy breaks out into a smile. “Okay. Though I ought ta give you some things ya left behind last time.” The Cajun crosses to a closet and pulls it open. There’s a wide variety of clothing inside; sparkles and sheer and silk and leather – and then Remy pulls out a dark brown leather jacket, with two lighter stripes on each arm. He turns, holding it up for Logan to look at. “You left it in my plane,” Remy says. “Didn’t remember it was there ‘til you were long gone, and ya didn’t exactly leave behind a mailin’ address.”

Logan grabs onto it, pulling it close to himself. He doesn’t even feel self-conscious as he lifts it to his nose, taking a long, deep breath. He can smell himself on the leather, and he knows it’ll fit perfect without even trying it on. On the second breath, he catches Remy’s scent, warm and sweet and familiar. It mixes perfect with the leather, and Logan can’t deny to himself that he likes the way the man smells mingled with himself. It calls to something inside himself that he’s buried deep, deep down. He pushes that thought away as he shrugs into the jacket. It fits as perfect as he expected. He slips his hands into the pockets, and blinks when his hand closes on a key.

“Come on,” Remy urges. “She’s waitin’ for ya.”

Logan follows him in a haze, caught up in half-formed memories. The jacket goes with a motorcycle, he knows that much now, but he can’t remember the model or the color, not even the distinct purr of the engine or the smell of its exhaust. He can almost see people, too, but they’re even hazier than the bike.

Remy guides him into a nearby garage. It’s small, with only a car and two motorcycles. One is a sleek, silver Ducati. The other is a Harley, and Logan knows it’s his.

“She’s mighty nice,” Remy says. “I took her for a few spins, kept her in shape. Figured you’d come back sooner or later, and you’d want her back.”

“I appreciate it, Rem.”

“Don’ mention it. You wanna take her for a ride? She’s missed you somethin’ awful.”

“I do. But I’m not sure where I’d go, or if I’d be able to get back easily.”

Remy grins. It’s a glorious and sunny expression, with enough wattage to light a whole house. It makes his strange eyes sparkle, though Logan tells himself he doesn’t notice that. “Easy fix,” he drawls, opening the garage door. “You and me gonna go for a drive.”

It doesn’t take long for both bikes to be rolled out and the garage shut up again. Logan swings onto his bike slowly, easing his weight onto it. The bike sags, but he expected it; everything seems to protest at his weight. He tries not to watch as Remy swings a leg over his bike, but it’s hard not to. That body, long and lean, the grace and ease with which he moves. It’s not easy to look away, especially with that long coat.

Red and black eyes glance over a strong shoulder. Another megawatt grin. “Hope you can keep up, _cher_ ,” he all but purrs. “My baby’s a fast one.”

Logan answers by keying the ignition and gunning the motor. The sound is loud in the lazy morning air, but it wins a laugh from his friend. Remy’s bike starts up, and he doesn’t wait before taking off.

Instinct claws at the buried part of himself to chase, and Logan gives into it eagerly.

They drive slower through the city, but Remy navigates the way out of the city and onto faster roads. The roads aren’t as fast as they drive, but neither of them care. Logan doesn’t know how Remy feels about it, but the wind in his face is freeing, the speed exhilarating. He hasn’t felt this at ease or free since he can remember.

Remy stops at a park, lush and green and quiet once the roaring rumble of Logan’s bike goes silent. Logan doesn’t question him, just follows him on tree-shaded paths, until Remy veers off and collapses into the grass.

“Sometimes,” the kid drawls as Logan sits down next to him, “I like to get outta the city. I love it, all de noise and light and people. But it can be a lot. Sometimes it’s good ta stop and slow down, find somewhere more quiet, peaceful.” Those curious eyes look up at Logan, a bit squinted in the light. “Don’t you think?”

Logan smiles, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. Cities are loud.” He pauses, but then the words blurt out. “It’s too loud, sometimes. I feel like I can hear everything.”

Remy doesn’t falter. “You can. Dat’s part o’ what you are, along wit’ dose wicked claws.”

The trace of a smile shifts into a hard frown. “How do you know?”

“I’ve worked with some folks dat know more about mutations then the average man. Learned about a group with animal like tendencies and abilities. Claws, heightened senses, things like dat. He called ‘em ferals. Seems like a brutal word ta me, but I dunno what to call it otherwise.”

Logan presses a palm over his chest, where his dog tags are tucked under his shirt. He’d stared at them a thousand times over, trying to understand them. One side read ‘Logan’, and only that; no indication if it was a first or last name. The flip side read ‘Wolverine’, which made even less sense. He thinks of that side now. What else to call a feral? By the name of a violent beast.

Remy sits up, pointing at his hand. “The tags?” Logan only nods. The Cajun gives him an expecting look, and Logan fishes them out. Remy’s long fingers pluck them out of his hand, but don’t pull them over his head. Instead he leans close to read either side. The scent of him comes over Logan again, mixing with the metallic tang of skin and metal. Logan holds himself still, attempting at casual, trying to ignore the reaction of his own body.

Besides the bike and jacket and some cash, Remy is just about the only thing Logan has. He’s certainly the only friend. He supposes it’s normal to feel a connection to him, especially given he was the first person he met after whatever happened to wipe his mind blank. But Logan knows, in the way that he knows practical things and history facts and song lyrics, that you don’t actively think your friends are attractive. Sure, you can admire it in an abstract way. But you aren’t supposed to notice it almost every time you see them or they’re nearby.

Maybe he’s too hard on himself. In his defense, he doesn’t _really_ know Remy. Calling each other friends is a loose term, and a hell of a lot shorter than “you’re some guy who needed my help and didn’t really put effort into killing me, so I helped you” and “you’re a stranger who I vaguely recognize and who I didn’t know I was looking for, but you don’t have as many answers as I hoped”.

But he does like Remy. He’s friendly and warm and willing to share his apartment with a man who’s a glorified stranger. He isn’t at all phased by last night’s nightmare episode. Maybe most important, he’s a mutant, and that alone builds a silent camaraderie. And it doesn’t hurt that Remy’s easy on the eyes.

The chain tugs suddenly against his neck. “You zonin’ out on me, _cher_?” Remy’s voice cuts through the fog of his thoughts, pulling him back up.

“Yeah,” Logan says. “You weren’t talkin’, so I took a minute to enjoy the quiet.”

Remy laughs, untangling his fingers from the chain. “You wound me. For dat, maybe I won’t tell ya where I knew those from.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Then pay attention!” Remy gives him a good shove, and Logan lets it rock him a bit. The Cajun glances around, assuring they’re alone. He moves a little closer still, their shoulders pressed against each other. “Met a man named Victor Creed,” he said, his voice turned down to a low murmur. “He was wearin’ tags a lot like dese. When you came lookin’ for me the first time and I saw yours, I thought you must’ve been a friend of his. Turns out you hated him about as much as I did. Creed worked for a Colonel William Stryker, who you were after. Ya had me take ya to dat island to kill him. Didn’t quite work out, but I admire your efforts immensely.”

Logan rolls the names over in his head, but neither one registers. He glares out ahead of himself, unseeing. It isn’t fair. He didn’t ask for his memory to be stripped from him. He just wants to know who he is, what happened to him, where he’s from. Does he have a family? Are they looking for him? Or is he as alone as he feels now?

Remy’s head drops slowly onto his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “Thought maybe it’d help jog somethin’.”

“Nothing,” Logan grates out between clenched teeth. “It’s always nothing.”

“Maybe we can look the names up. At least Creed. Stryker’s dangerous, ya don’t wanna go near him. But Creed, he might be able to tell you more.”

“Why do you wanna help me?” Logan snaps. “You said it yourself, you barely know me.”

Remy sits upright again, turning to face him. “I’ve got a good feelin’ about you.” One of his hands rested on Logan’s chest, over the steady beat of his heart. “You’re a good man. Vengeful, but good.” The warmth of his hand drew away. “And I suppose I feel a bit of guilt for what happened. I took you there, and ya left wit’ no memory. If I’d stuck around to help you out, maybe things would be different.”

“Sounded like I didn’t want the help. Shouldn’t blame yourself for doing what I asked.” His voice is gentler, his frustration and anger at the world subsiding just a bit. Remy’s sincerity and gentleness touch him in a way he hasn’t felt in any of the time he can remember.

Remy only shrugs. The quiet that comes between them doesn’t need to be filled.


	3. Leads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remy digs up some information for Logan. But after overhearing a tense phone call, Logan knows his time is almost done.

After three days of lazing in New Orleans, Remy comes into the apartment with a fancy little briefcase. It thumps onto the table and clicks open under his dexterous hands. Logan looks up from the book he’d been in the middle of. “Whatcha got there?”

“Told you I’d look up Creed for ya,” Remy replies. He pulls out a folder and sets it on the table, then a second one that he holds out to Logan. “Suppose ya wouldn’t remember this, but I figure ya knew it when ya came after me. I was on that island, not for very long, but I was. Creed’s the one that dragged me there. Which is why I blasted you through de wall when we first met.”

“You did what?”

Remy waves the folder in a dismissive gesture. “In my defense, I thought ya were a friend o’ his and were tryin’ ta drag me back for more experiments. Especially when ya called me that damn name. Gambit,” he said, half laugh and half sneer. “All cause dey hated a kid was fleecin’ ‘em at poker. Ain’t my fault Daddy taught me how to play to win. Anyway,” he says, waving the folder again, “I was rightfully wary, and I’ve got lots o’ reasons to hope you remember why you wanted to kill him, and you’ll go through wit’ it. Now, you gonna come look at dese files, or what?”

Logan tucks a bookmark in place before obliging. Both folders are slim, but the one in Remy’s hand is smaller. Logan takes it and flips it open.

“Creed’s a bit like you,” Remy offers. “A feral. Not as nice, though. A pain in de ass ta find, I’ll tell ya.”

Logan pages through, skimming the contents. “How the hell did you find all this?” Logan doesn’t have any of the latest gadgets, but he knows information like this requires computers, internet, people who know how to hack into systems, and a damn lot of work. None of which is cheap.

“Let’s just say my family and I are in de business of findin’ and gettin’ things,” Remy replies. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, _oui_?”

Logan doesn’t immediately reply. He’s started reading. Remy says something else and drifts away. Logan just settles in at the table with the file.

_Name: Victor Creed_

_Status: Alive_

_Nationality: Canadian_

_Mutant: Yes_

_Powers: Retractable claws on each finger; retractable fangs; regenerative healing; superhuman strength, speed, agility, durability, senses, and reflexes._

_Current Location: Unknown_

_History: Largely unknown. Recruited by Maj. William Stryker in 1978 after failed execution by firing squad. Last known to be working for Stryker (1979-1985) on black ops team (Team X) until disbandment in 1979; after was a personal aid for Stryker. Last seen on Three Mile Island in 1985. Since disappeared._

“Failed execution by firing squad?” Logan repeats out loud.

“Funny detail, _non_? Like I said, like you. Seems he heals from bullets, too.”

Logan whistles to himself before going back into the file. After the basics, there’s specific details – height, weight, hair and eye color, things like that, and some pictures. Victor Creed is tall and powerfully built, about his most defining characteristics. His hair is nondescript, worn militaristically short, and he has a close-trimmed beard. The pictures aren’t the best, but in one Logan swears he can see fangs. He touches the tip of his tongue against his own much smaller fangs.

Logan tosses the folder down. “If he’s vanished and no one knows where he is, how am I supposed to find him?”

“Went through some security footage in some places I thought most likely he’d be,” Remy replied. “Got a few potential hits. De locations are written down in the folder. It’s yours. Can pursue it or not, dat’s up ta you, but I wanted ya ta have de option.”

It’s another gesture that touches him. Remy didn’t have to do this, but he did. The man _cares_ about him. It’s something Logan hasn’t experienced in the past couple years. Something he hasn’t let himself experience. He’s kept his distance from everyone he’s met, but something about Remy makes him feel safe enough to accept it.

He rubs at his faintly itchy eyes. Why he’s almost tearing up at a show of kindness, he doesn’t understand. “You have no clue why I wanted to kill him?”

“ _Cher_ , you weren’t exactly chatty. A dead man talks more’n you when you’re pissed. All you told me was enough to get me on your side, and to bitch at me about de plane ride.”

Logan twists around to look at Remy. “I hated it?” At Remy’s nod, he lets out a pleased sigh. “Good. Cause I hate it now, too.”

“That’s good!” Remy’s grinning that megawatt grin again. “Seems not much about you’s changed. You’re moody and quiet and hate plane rides. Though, to circle back, I do know Victor killed de man you came wit’. Black man, wore a cowboy hat. His plates were Nevada, I had ‘em traced, in case ya wanted to pursue dat, too.”

“Damn. You have that much free time?”

“I’m between jobs, so more or less.”

Logan whistles again. He takes a second to scan the list of locations that Victor Creed may be in before grabbing the other folder. This one is bigger, if only by a bit.

_Name: John Wraith, aka John Carlisle_

_Status: Deceased_

_Nationality: American_

_Mutant: Yes_

_Powers: Teleportation_

_History: Born and raised in Nevada. Recruited by Maj. William Stryker in 1977. Worked in Team X until disbandment in 1979. Returned to Nevada and lived in Las Vegas area. Owned a boxing gym. Died in 1985 in New Orleans, Louisiana of a broken spine. Injuries were extensively traumatic and internal. How his death occurred is a mystery._

It sounds painful, but he wouldn’t know. He’d been in a car accident last year that should have broken his arm. It didn’t, but it had certainly hurt like a bitch. Turns out the metal is on his whole skeleton, not just the claws. How that happened is just part of the mystery he’s so desperate to solve.

Two leads. Two possibilities for answers for that mystery.

Two possibilities for nothing.

It’s terrifying, but it’s more than he had yesterday.

He puts both folders aside. “I appreciate it, Remy. Really. You didn’t have to.”

The kid moves quietly, but Logan can still hear him, so it’s no surprise when the hand squeezes his shoulder just a bit. “I wanted to. I just hope it pans out. Dis mean you’re leavin’ our fair city soon?”

He wants to. But he also doesn’t. “It can wait,” he decides. “Especially since one of them ain’t gonna run off on me. Figure I can stay around a little longer.”

“Perfect! You wanna get dinner? I know de best place.”

***

The best place ends up being a small, hole in the wall type of place. Everyone knew Remy, and the food was incredible, and it’s been the best day yet. Logan settles back in with his book, bent on finishing it. It’s a recent Stephen King, _Misery_ it’s called, and it’s damn good.

When the phone rings, Logan doesn’t bother paying it mind. All the calls are for Remy. The Cajun offers a quick apology before scrambling to answer. Remy picks up the phone as speaks into it quietly. But Logan can still hear him.

“Hello? Oh, Daddy, hey… Sorry, we went out for dinner. What’s up?... I’m not quite sure. A few more days?... _Non, non_ , nothing like dat. I’m just helpin’ a friend, he’s goin’ through a rough patch and needs a place to hang out for a bit.”

Logan snorts to himself in the pause. You could call it a rough patch. Or a complete pain in the ass.

“I know.” There’s a hint of steely anger in those two words. Logan glances up from his book to the doorway, uneasy. He can all but picture Remy walking a card over the back of his fingers. He plays with them when he’s frustrated. Logan’s picked up on his tension, has deduced that something major is happening in his family life. He deduces that this call has to do with whatever that is.

“I’m aware of that.” Remy’s accent is all but gone, replaced by a smooth, clipped voice. “I intend to deal with it soon.” A small pause. “Soon. I’m just helping him figure out what to do next. I promise I’ll be home soon, as soon as he’s on his feet again… Are you implying I’m not taking this seriously?” Remy’s voice has taken an icy edge that makes Logan wary. “Of course, I think this is important. Of course, I want to do my duty – and I will. Just give me a few more days.”

A final pause. “All right. Goodnight, Daddy.” The phone clatters as it goes into the cradle. Remy sighs, deeply, heavily, a sound that doesn’t belong to a nineteen-year-old.

Logan shifts back to his book, but the words are meaningless now. He’s trouble, something he never wanted to be for his friend.

When Remy comes back into the room, he doesn’t show his frustration. “Sorry ‘bout dat. Family drama.”

“It’s all right,” Logan grunts. But he knows his time with Remy is almost up.


	4. Goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan leaves New Orleans, determined to find his identity.

Logan lingers in New Orleans longer than anywhere else.

There’s lots of reasons to. The city is a pretty sight. The old Spanish style homes in the French Quarter, with their iron balconies and galleries full of potted plants that make the air smell green; the elegance of the Garden District homes, and all the lush quiet; the live music coming from everywhere, from kids rattling on crates to full jazz bands in restaurants; the sudden rushes of rain that make everything fresh and clean, and how the lights reflect on the wet pavement. The food is incredible and plentiful. The streets are easy to navigate. The city feels warm and welcoming and kind.

Remy is the best reason, of course. He’s fun and happy and always willing to help. As the days pass into a week, Logan finds himself happy to call him a genuine friend, even as his feelings continue to twist and knot in confusing ways.

But Logan knows he’s an inconvenience. Maybe not to Remy, but certainly to Remy’s family. He’s pretty sure the kid has no idea he overheard the details of the phone call, but he did, and he feels bad.

Remy has a life beyond trying to help him. So, a little at a time, he starts to disengage, to pack up and plan his route. He doesn’t have much still, but he doesn’t need a lot, and at least he finally can stop boarding planes. He just wants some answers, and Remy’s given him all he can. It’s time to look somewhere new. He considers his options for a day or two before deciding on his destination. Dead men can wait; live men can run. Chasing after this Victor Creed seems the smartest place to start.

When Remy sees his meager possessions packed, his shoulders cave in. “Time for you to go?”

“Gotta keep looking,” Logan replies. Looking at all his things packed up makes him realize just how little he has. It’s beyond spartan – it’s the absence of identity.

“I understand. Here.” Remy hands him a wallet. “Got some supplies for you. Namely a better ID and passport. Yours were okay, but these are better.”

Logan takes the offered wallet and passport, glancing over them. Everything in it feels impersonal and empty, but it looks better than the flimsy things he bought out of desperation when he first realized the pull was dragging him out of America. He closes it without much further examination. “Probably going up to Canada. Figure it’s a likely place for Creed, since he’s from there.”

“Good thing I got de passport. Speakin’ of, de address on your ID is another place owned by my daddy’s business. If you need it, drop by and give a knock, tell whoever’s there I sent ya. They’ll let ya stay a while, free of charge.”

Logan turns back to his friend. “Rem… Thank you. Honestly.”

“My pleasure. You gonna go right now?”

Logan nods. If he doesn’t go now, he’s not sure he ever will. And he can’t just go through the rest of his life with no identity. He needs to find it.

Remy accompanies him to the bike and watches him strap down his single bag. Logan’s sweating under the leather jacket, but he zips it up still, ready for a long day of driving and not wanting the wind to chafe his arms. They both hesitate as Logan finishes, looking at one another. Remy moves first, closing the distance and wrapping Logan in a tight hug.

“Don’t be a stranger,” he urges as they come apart. Logan promises not to, though he has no idea if or when he’ll be back down to the Big Easy.

When he settles onto his bike, he gives Remy a last look, a last goodbye. Then the engine comes to life and he’s gone. He doesn’t turn his head to look back. But he does look in the mirrors as Remy grows smaller and smaller behind him.

***

North he goes. He only stops for the essentials: bathroom breaks, food, an occasional longer stop to stretch his legs on a walk. The day slips by. Eventually he pulls off at a cheap motel and buys a room for the night.

It’s not quite as shabby as he expected, but it isn’t great either. The room smells like cheap cleaning products and cigarette smoke, and it’s too warm. He turns on the ceiling fan in desperation, then sheds his leather jacket and shirt. Bare to the waist, he stands right in the fan’s draft for a few minutes. It’s better than nothing.

He takes a cool shower next. The soap makes his skin feel dry and tight, and he doesn’t exactly feel clean, but at least he’s washed off his sweat. Unfortunately, he’s also washed off the lingering trace of Remy’s scent.

He doesn’t examine the fact that he already misses the kid too closely. And he definitely ignores the pang of missing his scent. It speaks of an attachment on a deeper level, an attachment by the other part of himself that he buries so deep. He can’t afford that, especially since he doesn’t know when he’ll see him again.

He only has the nubby towel wrapped around his waist after when he grabs the wallet and sits down at the little table. Logan thumbs through the contents slowly. The ID is for Alberta, Canada, to match the bike’s plates. Name says John Logan, which is only a step above John Doe. John doesn’t sit right, but it’ll do until he finds his real name. The address is nonsense in a town he somehow recognizes as a Calgary suburb. The height is in centimeters, but he amuses himself in knowing that it translates to a little under six feet.

He sets it aside to fetch the possible locations Victor Creed might be in. One of them is indeed in Alberta. “As good a place as any,” he grunts, tossing the folder aside. He dips back into the wallet, pulling out the other items. Next is a bunch of cash – mostly American money, but some Canadian, too. Logan whistles to himself as he counts out over a thousand bucks. He’s grateful and guilty at the same time.

As he’s putting the cash back in, his fingers brush against something else. He sets the money back down and fishes out a business card. An embossed fleur-de-lis is on the left side, the right occupied with how to get in touch with one Remy Etienne LeBeau. It smells faintly of ink, and Logan turns it over to see a quick message.

_For the next time you come down my way – Remy_

Logan smiles a little to himself before putting everything away, yawning as he does it. It’s been a long day on the road, and it’s time to settle in. He isn’t sure how well or how much he’ll sleep, but he’s going to try.

He doesn’t bother to dress for bed; it’s too damn hot for him. With the lights off, there’s an illusion of coolness. He lays under the thinnest sheet, as comfortable as he can be and closes his eyes. Sleep comes quickly...

But so do the nightmares.

He tries not to scream or destroy the bed as he lurches back awake. He doesn’t restrain from punching a pillow. His nights in New Orleans had lulled him into peace; the nightmares hadn’t been as vivid, or as regular. And at least whenever they did wake him, Remy had always been there to soothe him back to sleep, either with his fingers in his hair or an impromptu massage, and often the shape of him curled into Logan in the dark.

But Remy isn’t here in this cheap hotel room. Logan’s all on his own, and he needs to sleep. He can’t run on three hours of sleep a night for the rest of his life. Especially not when he’s driving all day long.

He climbs out of bed, pacing around the room. He makes a few laps before he notices the scent. Remy’s scent, mixed with leather and wind and his own sweat. He pads over to his things and slowly picks up the leather jacket. When he brings it to his nose, Remy’s scent is there. It isn’t the strongest, and it certainly isn’t the man himself and his low, familiar murmur in the dark. But it’s better than nothing.

Logan crawls back into bed, leather jacket held close. And slowly, he finds sleep again.

The nightmares stay at bay.


	5. Calgary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan reaches Alberta and settles into the small house a bit out of Calgary.

Days later and Logan finally crosses the border. It’s a bit nerve-wracking; he feels like the man at the border asking him questions knows something isn’t right. But he’s sent on through, and with a rumble of the engine, he’s into Canada.

He’d gone north and west, crossing into the country on the eastern end of Alberta. Remy’s generosity rings repeatedly in his head, and a house, no matter how small, will be an improvement from the string of hotels he’s stayed in. Not to mention cheaper. He wants to send some sort of thank you to Remy and his family, but Remy’s little business card didn’t have an address, and he has the sure feeling that he would deny any gifts.

It takes a while longer to reach his destination, and when he does, he isn’t disappointed. The house is set far out in a Calgary suburb. The neighbors are too far away to be directly nosy, and the air is relatively quiet. Logan can hear some traffic a few miles away, but nothing too busy. Some neighborhood dogs bark at whatever catches their eye, but animal ambiance doesn’t bother him one bit.

Logan can hear inside the house, too. He considers it for a moment. It’s quaint and simple, nothing special, with neutral colored walls and a dark roof. The door is plain, with only a small window that the inhabitant can peek out of to see who’s calling. Logan focuses, honing his senses down to just the house. It sounds like a single person lounging about. A day off of work, he supposes.

It feels strange to walk up to a stranger’s house, but he does it. He steps up onto the low porch, bag slung over his shoulder, and gives the bell a quick jab. The muffled ring assures him it’s in working order. There’s a spell of quiet, and then the sound of light footsteps. A face flashes in the window of the door for a half second.

The locks click open and the door swings inward. In front of him stands a woman. She gives him a quick once over. “You must be Logan,” she declares. “Remy mentioned you might be dropping in.” She steps out of the doorway and gestures him in.

“I hope I’m not intruding, ma’am,” Logan replies, not yet stepping over the threshold.

“Nonsense,” she replies. A smile comes to her mouth. “A friend of Remy’s is a friend to us all.”

Logan nods once and steps inside. The woman leads him through the house to a simple guest bedroom. “You can stay here,” she says. “It isn’t much, but it’s comfortable.”

“Better than a hotel,” Logan says. He drops his duffel onto the bed. When he looks back at the woman, she’s eyeing the dog tags that had slipped out from under his shirt at some point during his day.

“Military?” she asks, nodding towards them.

Logan falters, brain whirling to try and come up with an answer. He has no fucking clue. Based on visual clues – his spartan belongings, the dog tags, the strict and neat-pressed way he folds his clothes – it points to a yes, but he has no memory of it.

His lack of answer seems to be enough though, because she nods. “Yeah, my dad never talked about his army days, either. Anyway, I’m Amy. I’ll be putting dinner on in a bit. Want anything in particular?”

Logan shrugs off the question. “Whatever you’ve got planned is fine.” He doesn’t want to be any trouble.

Amy nods. “Okay. I’ll let you know when it’s ready. The closet is just there, and the bathroom is just across the hall. Settle on in.” With that, she turns and walks out of the room.

Logan watches after her. Something about the way she walks reminds him of Remy. Her steps are similarly light, and she moves with a fleet grace. He imagines if he made to startle her, she’d whip right around and punch him in the nose lightning quick. Except she’d probably miss; Logan’s willing to bet his reflexes are sharper.

It doesn’t take him long to unpack. His duffel only contains a few changes of clothes. Once those are put away, he kicks off his boots. He hesitates before shrugging off the leather jacket. He brings it up to his nose, taking in the scents. The sun-warm leather has trapped a few. He smells himself – woodsy and wild – and his Harley’s exhaust. The smell of leather itself, rich but quiet. Beneath it all is still Remy, but his scent has faded some, overlaid by Logan’s own.

Though Remy’s scent is faded, it’s still enough that it seems to soothe his bad sleep. Or maybe he’s just that exhausted from the days of driving. Either way, the nightmares haven’t been too bad lately. Still, he hangs the jacket over a chair. He knows better than to rely on his mind remaining peaceful.

His final gesture of unpacking is to toss the duffel bag onto a shelf in the closet. Logan then turns to take in the room.

It’s not very personal. White walls and beige carpet, as neutral as the house’s exterior. A couple pictures hang on the walls, a bit Western themed, but nondescript. The bed is neatly made and smells of nothing but clean sheets. The bedding itself is plain; a dark blue duvet and lighter blue sheets. Anyone could have been in this room before him and anyone can follow him.

A sizzling sound starts from elsewhere in the house, chased by the scent of cooking steak. Logan’s brain supplies the trivial observation that beef is an easy commodity to access in Alberta, a land of cattle ranches. He’s already imagining a hearty dinner of steak and potatoes of some kind. Probably some other vegetable to round it out. He follows his nose out of the bedroom, past the living room, and into the kitchen. His hostess is busy getting everything on to cook.

Amy is a plain but pretty girl, he observes. Her hair is a nondescript brunette, pulled up into a ponytail with a purple scrunchie. What Logan can glimpse of her face is average and pretty, very girl-next-door. She remains graceful as she works in the kitchen, her small hands quick and feather light. Her clothes are simple, jeans and a white shirt. Plain, but pretty.

“Should be just a few more minutes,” she says, glancing over at him. “How do you like your steak?”

“Medium,” he says, shrugging a little. “I’m not too picky.” Of the things he has learned of himself so far, one is that he’ll eat just about any kind of meat.

Amy doesn’t talk much, and Logan doesn’t offer conversation. He simply watches her as she cooks. There are potatoes baking in the oven, and green beans also. She pulls some biscuits from the fridge and some butter to spread on them. The steaks sizzle in the skillet. Cattle ranches, Logan thinks again, the mental picture of one sharp in his mind, complete with a few cowboys on horses herding the cattle to their own dinner. It’s so vivid he can almost smell the ranch air.

Cattle ranches. Random trivia. He knows a lot of it, he’s realized in his two years since waking up on Three Mile Island with no memories. History dates, the top three to five songs of random years, statistics on the Calgary Flames, that Banff National Park is the oldest national park in Canada and was established in 1885. He knows at least Japanese and some French. He feels like all this random knowledge is a handful of puzzle pieces to a jigsaw he hasn’t found.

“You’re thinking hard,” Amy pipes up. Logan blinks, snapping into focus to look at her. She’s looking right back. “Haven’t seen a scowl that deep in quite some time. You’re kinda young to be so broody.”

Young? Is he? Sometimes he feels older than the mountains to the west. His body is that of a younger man, but his eyes belong to that young man’s grandfather. He shrugs a little, aware he’s still scowling. “Sometimes the youth gets knocked out of ya.”

Amy’s eyebrows arch up and she nods. “That’s true. I’m sorry that it happened to you.” She falls quiet a moment before taking another breath. “Not to by nosy, but how did you meet Remy?”

He’s been anticipating the question since he decided to come to the house days ago. On his endless drives, he’s had plenty of time to form an answer. “Met him in the casino down in New Orleans. I needed some help on a personal matter.”

The ambiguity doesn’t bother Amy. In fact, the grin she answers with seems as if she expected just that type of answer. “Sounds about right. He’s a good kid. I haven’t been lucky to spend too much time with him, since I work all the way up here, but the few times I met him, he’s always been great. Always remembers my name, too, which is incredible given how many of us there are.”

“Must be an awfully big business his family runs,” Logan observes.

Amy laughs. “You have no idea. It’s worldwide, and been in the family for generations. There’s branches in all First World countries, and some Second World satellites.”

Logan whistles. It’s beyond impressive. But coupled with the fact that he knows nothing about the business or it’s name, he finds it also a bit unnerving. Amy doesn’t seem eager to elaborate on it more, and Logan decides not to ask for details she won’t or can’t give. Instead, he asks, “How long have you worked in the business?”

“Almost four years. I’m not very far up the ranks, but I’m doing good work.”

“Only four?”

“Yeah, but I spent quite some time training. It takes a very specific set of skills to work in this field. Only the best make it through training. What about you?”

“I don’t have a job,” he replies, shrugging it off. “I’m having a bit of a rough patch in life.”

Amy doesn’t reply immediately as she takes up their dinner. The smell of it is mouth-wateringly good. Logan helps her grab everything and carry it over to the small, informal dining table. As they set everything down, Amy finally replies. “If you’re planning to stay here a while, I’m sure we could find you a job. Anything you like to do, or you’re good at?”

More questions he doesn’t know the answer to. Yet, as he opens his mouth, words jump forward. “I’m good with hands on stuff. Can fix up cars, manual labor, that type of stuff.”

“A macho man, I see. I’ll ask around and see what I can find, yeah?”

“You don’t have to. I can-”

“I’m happy to help you out. A friend of Remy’s, a friend of mine, remember?” Amy plops down into her seat and picks up her fork. “No sit and eat before this gets cold on you.”

Logan obliges eagerly. Amy is a good cook, though the dinner isn’t anything particularly special. Still, it’s hearty and it tastes good, and Logan enjoys it. After dinner, Amy points out the beer in the fridge, and Logan happily takes a bottle. She puts a hockey game on the TV – the Calgary Flames, of course – and Logan happily joins. And for one night since he’s been on the road, he feels like a complete person.


	6. Banff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan launches his search for Creed.

The next day he eats two bowls of cereal, tells Amy he’s got something personal to look into, and hops on his bike.

He drives about an hour and a half before reaching the town of Banff. On the list of Creed’s possible locations, this one struck the strongest chord with Logan. Arriving in the town, he immediately sees why.

The Rocky Mountains tower around him, and the rich scent of pine and spruce reaches over the sting of exhaust. The town’s skyline is dominated by two peaks, the main thoroughfare pointing straight to them. He wants to drive straight through, run into the woods and mountains and never come back.

He can’t, though. He needs to know who he is. Victor Creed has answers, he knows it in his gut, and he believes the man is here. Logan just doesn’t know where to look.

After paying for a week long pass into the park, he’d received a map. A quick study of it showed numerous small towns and campgrounds that civilized men would choose to stay at. But there’s 6,500 square kilometers of wilderness for a feral to lose himself in. If Creed feels even half the pull Logan does, he may well be in that wilderness right now.

If that’s the case, Logan doubts he’ll ever find him. He doesn’t know the man’s scent, so he can’t track him, or find his den. They would cross over each other’s old paths constantly, never seeing one another for months.

But maybe, just maybe, he’s choosing to live like a man, camping out in a cabin or staying in a hotel. At the very least, he may have stopped in the town of Banff for supplies.

Remy’s guesses at Creed’s locations were based on grainy security footage, images of men who could be Creed captured and sized up into blurry photos. Logan had studied them all while making his decision of where to go. The pictures were all possibilities, but not promises. Creed may not be in Banff, may never have been here in his life, but the chance that he had was worth the gamble.

Logan parks outside of the store whose security footage Remy somehow got hold of. It’s a camping supply store, a small local business. Logan doesn’t have a plan of what he’ll do, but he walks inside.

The bell on the door gives a tinny jingle as he steps inside. He glances around; the store is organized, and though it’s in the middle of town, it feels rustic. There are a few other men, older than him, obviously campers themselves. They nod to him, and he returns the gesture.

Logan makes his way to the food, hands stuffing into the pockets of his leather jacket. He takes his time looking, listening as the men stock up on fishing supplies and make their purchases. When the bell jingles and they say farewell to the man at the register, Logan goes into real action. He grabs some beef jerky and makes his way to the counter. The man behind it is older, white hair peeking out from beneath his cap, his snowy beard stained yellow around the mouth from nicotine. His face is weathered from sun and smoking, tan and wrinkled. He smiles around his cigarette as Logan approaches.

“Howdy, stranger,” the man drawls. Logan’s ears prick to the twangy drawl of Alberta folk. “Not much for a camping trip. Sure you don’t need much else?”

“Nah,” Logan replies, aware of his own nowhere voice in contrast to the character in the other’s. “I’m just looking at nature, maybe taking a few hikes. Just exploring.”

“First time in Banff, eh?”

“Yeah. I’m enjoying it so far.”

“Always happy to hear that.” The man rattles off the cost of Logan’s snack. As he digs out his change, he feels the man studying him. “It’s funny,” the old timer drawls. “You remind me of a guy that came through recently. You’ve got a similar air ‘bout you.”

Logan looks up at him as he passes over his money. “Yeah?” And suddenly, unbidden, “Could’ve been my cousin, Victor. Last time we talked, he said he’d just come down from here and thought I’d like it.”

“Could be,” the man agreed, counting back his change. “Big man? Had a big coat, too, and didn’t say much. He liked beef jerky, too.”

“Sounds a lot like him,” Logan agrees.

“Think he was goin’ to the Lake Louise area. I think you’d like it, especially Moraine Lake. Should head out that way and see it for yourself.”

Logan grins as he takes his change. “Sounds like a damn good plan.”

***

Logan ends up taking a shuttle out to the lake area on the old man’s recommendation, and he’s glad of it; the parking area is packed full. As soon as he sees the crowd around Lake Louise, he knows Victor wouldn’t be nearby. So he heads out to Moraine Lake instead.

Less people take the shuttle out to the other lake, and as soon as he’s there, he feels better. He can even forget his purpose for coming; he’d rather take in the stunning view instead of hunt for a man he doesn’t know.

After taking some time to appreciate the view, he strikes out onto a trail. There are other hikers as well, but it’s relatively quiet compared to other parts of the park. Logan takes care to scent the air discreetly, in case anyone is around to see him, checking for any scent that seems abnormal.

It takes a while before he picks up something off. The scent is faint, but the wildness in it makes the hair on his nape prickle. Logan takes only a moment to glance around and make sure no one is nearby to see him step off the trail.

He dives off the trail, slipping quiet and quick into the forest. He sniffs at the air, hunting down the strange scent. It’s similar to his own in a way, distinctly human but with an animalistic musk that turns it strange and bitter. It must be Creed; what else could it be?

Yet as he continues deeper into the wood, the scent grows increasingly faint. Logan grits his teeth, pushing onward, too stubborn to stop. But stubbornness can’t change the simple fact that he’s losing the scent.

Anger flashes through him, heating his blood to a boil. Logan slams his fist against a tree. The bark cuts his knuckles open, but they heal shut as soon as they’re torn. A low growl starts in him as he begins to pace between the trees.

“He was here,” he mutters to himself, the words tattered around the wild sound thrumming in his throat. “He was here, and he isn’t. Where is he?”

The rustle of undergrowth freezes him in place. Logan straightens, body gone taut as his attention focuses on his hearing. He gives one quick sniff at the air. The angry boil of his blood turns suddenly cold. He turns slow, slow, stopping when he can look at the bear.

The grizzly bear is looking at him just as intently as he looks at it. It’s a massive beast, with claws as wicked as his own. It’s obvious to him now why Creed isn’t in this area still. Sharing land with a grizzly bear is out of the _question_.

Logan isn’t afraid of it. He survived getting shot in the head, he can survive a grizzly bear. That doesn’t mean he wants a fight. He has more important things to deal with.

The grizzly starts to approach. It lumbers, not an aggressive charge, but a slow approach. Logan watches its snout twitch as it scents him. It stops a few steps away from him. For another long moment the two stare at each other. Then the bear gives a small grunt and turns away, lumbering back the way it came. Logan watches as it just keeps going, never looking back.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters to himself, shoulders finally loosening. Maybe going off the path isn’t his best idea.

***

The rest of the day goes similarly. Logan goes places in Banff, searches for that same human-animal scent, but never finds anything. Eventually evening starts to come, and he makes his way back home. He’s tired and frustrated and angry. He feels like he has the past couple years, like God or whatever is out there in the world is laughing at him, watching him suffer.

He vows into the wind and the twilight air that he’ll find his answers. No matter what it takes.


	7. Cold Trails

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan's trail in Alberta runs cold. He sets his sights on Las Vegas and the answers of dead men.

Logan spends his time between working in a car shop and travelling throughout Banff, saving money to fund the inevitable time when he needs to move on and search elsewhere for Creed and answers to half-formed questions about himself. Who is he, where is he from, does he have a family? What did this Creed and Stryker do to him that drove him to such desperate revenge?

Were his bones always coated in metal? Who did that to him?

It’s a month into his strange behavior that Amy finally talks to him about it.

“What are you doing all the time in Banff?” she asks. It’s a commercial break during tonight’s hockey game, and both are taking a second to unwind from the tension of the last bad call.

Logan doesn’t want to talk about it, but she’s been good enough to let him stay with her without any qualms. “I’m looking for someone who owes me something,” he replies.

Amy looks at him for a lingering moment, sipping on her bear. “You look like a man out for blood when you say that,” she says. “Looking for blood and trouble. Men like you always find it.”

The words tingle down his spine. He’s had the same feeling before, an intense and agonizing déjà vu. He knows in his soul someone has said the same general sentiment to him before. It’s so intense he can almost see the person in front of him. But as he reaches for it, the feeling abandons him. He blinks the last dregs of it away. “Yeah,” he agrees. “We do.”

“I guess the search isn’t going well, given how much you’re up there.”

Logan just shakes his head. It’s been miserable, in a way. Sure the sights are pretty and he loves the outdoors, but it feels as if he’s being taunted. He knows that Creed’s been there, recently, can read it from his scent alone. And yet the man is nowhere to be found.

“How long are you gonna look? No offense,” Amy tacks on with haste, “but he might have found out you were looking for him and moved, gone on vacation, who knows what.”

“I know.” The longer it takes, the more he’s sure that’s what’s happened. “Long enough to save up some extra cash. I’ve got other places to search, and gas ain’t free.”

“A damn shame.”

Logan hums agreeably. A damn shame, indeed.

***

It takes almost two months, but finally he finds it.

Far off any trail, close to a mountain-fed stream, a bit of shelter created by some rocks and trees. Calling it a cave would be incredibly generous, but it’s enough to keep out the worst of the weather. The same human-animal scent he found his first day in the park lingers in the den. On a nearby tree, four deep scratches have been carved into the bark. Logan traces them with his fingertips, wondering what Creed’s claws look like. His own tingle under the skin and muscle of his arms, like called to like.

“Where are you?” he whispered to the den. But it has no answers about where its former occupant has gone.

Creed’s scent, though present, isn’t fresh by any means. Creed’s been gone most of the time Logan has been searching the park for him. It burns to know it, to think that maybe Creed set it up this way, to lead him on a wild chase while he slipped away. Logan doesn’t know how he’ll ever find him now.

Except there are other people to pursue. Ones that can’t move.

How far is Las Vegas? How much will the gas cost? As he makes his way back to Amy’s house, he’s already doing the math.

When he gets home, he greets his host with the news. “My man’s long gone by now. Guess I’ll be soon enough, too.”

Amy nods, unperturbed. “Well it’s been nice to have you. Got a new destination in mind?”

“Vegas. There’s someone else who can help me there.” Easier to say, at least, than explaining he’s pursuing the history of a dead man who was maybe his friend. He knows that would lead to too many questions, even though Amy isn’t the type to pry.

It takes another few months for him to feel his stash of cash is big enough to get him to Vegas, and be enough to live for a bit. But finally the day comes that he shrugs on the leather jacket again and points his bike south. Once more his only company is the road and the wind and the scents in his jacket. The coolness of pine, the warmth of Amy’s house. With a pang, he realizes Remy’s scent has faded away and been buried.

He spends much of the drive thinking about Remy. The kid had a duty, that much was obvious. Has he met it yet, now that Logan isn’t there to take up all his time? It’s been months now, and Remy may be languid and easy going, but he isn’t lazy. Maybe after he’s done in Vegas, he’ll head back down and visit him. It would be good to see a familiar face again.

And if he has unspoken motives behind that, he doesn’t think of them.

***

Fall in the desert of North America is different than the fall Logan left in Alberta. Up there, the air had become chill, with frost on the ground and even a bit of snow already starting. The weather is still hot, hot enough that he’s sweating under his jacket. The sun beats down with unforgiving brightness. Logan burns the palms of his hands once on his bike, made scalding by that harsh sun, then promptly stops in somewhere to buy a pair of gloves. Otherwise, the drive is relatively uneventful.

And finally he reaches Sin City.

He arrives at night, the worst possible time in his opinion. The scents and sounds are already overloading his mind, and the blinding neon lights from the casinos stab at his eyes. He immediately goes away from the main strip, finding a cheap, seedy hotel – Vegas Heights, the sing proclaims – to make himself at home in.

Except as soon as he’s unpacked his meager bag of clothes, Logan is restless. He begins to pace the little room. It’s late, but he knows sleep will be out of the question for a while. The thin walls don’t help. A few rooms down, he can hear people fucking; he ignores it as best he can. The night is cooler, and given his restless energy, he decides to head out.

He calls a cab to take him into the city, not wanting to have to deal with all the traffic and pedestrians. Logan gets out wherever, he doesn’t particularly care. He just wants a damn drink and somewhere cool, maybe hit one of the casinos and see if he’s lucky.

Logan finds himself at the Bellagio first. It’s fancy and elegant, and not his usual cup of tea, but he’s only been on the street for a couple minutes and he’s sick of the crowds. Inside is still busy, but it’s easier to avoid people when they’re glued to slot machines and their various gambling games. Logan orders a beer and makes his way around, not sure what he’s looking for until he finds the poker room.

It's the realization that this is the sort of place Remy would enjoy finally hits him as he steps inside. The elegance is undeniable, and the clientele ooze money. It’s so easy to picture the Cajun dealing cards at one of these tables, or playing himself, making sure the table has fun, all the while fleecing them and cutting a fine profit.

Logan can so easily picture it that he swears he can almost smell the man. He’s just starting to duck out of the room when he swears he can hear his bright, warm laugh, too.

Except he isn’t imagining it. Logan turns back around, sweeping around the room with a glance. And there, there to his left and towards the back, a jewel toned blue shirt and a fedora. He starts towards it, sure it’s his Remy.

Except then he sees cards flashing in some amazing sleight of hand at another table. Logan veers over, maneuvering until he’s standing opposite the card dealer. The cards return to long, graceful hands, the sleeves of the purple shirt shimmering with the motion; silk, he has no doubt. The jauntily tipped fedora hides the man’s eyes, but Logan can see his smirk. The cards rest in his hand, but do not yet hit the table. Instead the head lifts. Entirely human eyes look at him, but Logan knows this face. He would know it blind.

“ _Bonsoir, mon ami_ ,” Remy purrs in his honeyed Cajun drawl. “May I deal you in?”

Logan, not knowing quite why he says it, replies, “What can I get for seventeen bucks?”

Remy grins bright as the sun, and Logan swears he sees a reddish spark in those eyes. “A cab ride home, perhaps. Sorry, _mis amis_ ,” Remy says to the table, setting the cards down. He waves one hand, and another man in different jewel shirt comes to take his place. “I’ve got other responsibilities tonight.” Remy stands and comes around, slinging an arm over Logan’s shoulder. “You’n me have a lot of catchin’ up to do, _cher._ ”


	8. Catching Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan catches up on Remy's life since leaving New Orleans.

The twenty-ninth floor of the Bellagio is where they go to, and Logan doesn’t even bat an eye at the fact that Remy is staying in the penthouse. Of course, he is; where else would he be? Their shoes should be loud on the gilt and white marble floor, but they’re both soundless, well-practiced in quiet movement. Remy veers first to the private bar. Logan drifts into the living room, aware of Remy moving in the bar. He smells first whiskey for himself, then bourbon for his host.

“Make yourself at home. I’ll be wit’ ya in just a sec.” Remy’s voice turns wry and sharp. “No rubes, don’t gotta hide.”

Logan follows the instruction, sinking into the plush couch, dumping his jacket on the arm next to him. Remy passes by and slips through another doorway. A moment later, he returns, fedora off, his eyes the startling black and red that Logan remembers. Logan frowns a bit, which makes the other man smile, though not his familiar megawatt grin.

“Colored contact lenses,” he supplies. He brings over the drinks and collapses next to Logan. “Keeps people at de table from freakin’ out. Of course – wait, d’you remember when we met now?”

Logan takes a sip of his whiskey first. “No,” he finally answers. “Why?”

Remy hums thoughtfully. “What you said at de table, ‘bout seventeen dollars. We had de same exchange in New Orleans when ya came for my help. Maybe it’s in de subconscious. Regardless, if ya had remembered, you’d remember dat when my powers go full out, my eyes get glowin’, and contacts don’t do shit for that.”

Logan doesn’t really know how to reply. So he remains quiet, shifting a little so their shoulders bump. Remy isn’t quite how he remembers him. The effervescence is dulled a bit. He’s quieter, less prone to smiles and jokes. It bothers him a bit.

The bump seems to amuse him, though, as his elbow jabs a bit at Logan. “How was Alberta? Ya find much?”

“Not really. Creed was already gone. I liked the house you said I should go to.”

“Glad ta hear it. How’s Amy doin’?”

“Good. Kept to herself, but we got on well.”

Remy grins, still not as bright, but better than before. “Doesn’t hurt dat she watches hockey.”

Logan chuckles. “Definitely. Wouldn’t have minded stayin’ longer, but there wasn’t anything left for me to find. Figured it was time to switch leads.”

“Dead men can’t run away.” Remy’s words echo his own thoughts, but the tone is different from the way he thinks of it. Where Logan sees hope and answers, Remy sees specters and demons, things darker and grimmer. Logan looks over at him, seeing his strange eyes gone dark and distant.

Up close, looking at him in detail, the changes in him are stark. Remy is built to be long and lean, but he’s lost weight. His face seems sharper and his collarbones jut out in his open collar. Dark circles shadow his eyes, a testament to his poor sleep. The hand not holding his glass fidgets endlessly, smoothing over his tailored slacks, fussing the buttons of his shirt, reaching up to tug at his long auburn hair.

It isn’t his place to ask what happened. Remy will say if he wants. Still, one question is nagging him. “What are you doing in Vegas anyway?” Logan knows how much Remy’s family means to him. It’s strange that he isn’t with them.

Remy knocks back his glass of bourbon and sets it down with a sigh. “Should’ve just grabbed de whole bottle,” he mutters. Both of his hands start to fidget. He pulls back his hair and ties it out of his face in a swift braid; his hair has grown out longer, past his shoulders now. He fiddles with one of his cuffs, watching his fingers as he does so. “Don’t even know where ta begin,” he finally says. “Should jus’ be a simple answer, but it ain’t. It never is.”

Logan’s heart sinks at those words. Before he can tell him it isn’t that big a deal, Remy’s plunging ahead, accent vacant, voice bland and heartless.

“You see, I was abandoned as a kid. I grew up on the streets. Lived like that until I was nine or ten, when Daddy adopted me. He caught me picking his pocket. Most people would turn you in for that, but Jean-Luc LeBeau needs good pick pockets. Because that’s what the family business is: stealing. Not penny ant pocket change, but real art pieces, expensive jewels, anything that anyone will pay good money for.

“We’re the Thieves Guild. We’re worldwide, but Daddy’s the head of it all, based in the good old Big Easy. Henri and I, we’re his heirs – and turns out I’m some prophesied savior or some shit, cause there’s this feud between us and the Assassins, and I was supposed to bring peace. Political marriages are a fucking bitch.”

Logan thinks about that phone call, the duty in it. The duty of marrying the enemy.

“After you left, it was immediately into wedding plans. Could’ve done worse for a wife; Belladonna and I were friends when we were young, before her brother went full psycho, and she’s gorgeous, but fuck she’s _cold_. She doesn’t feel anything, I think. But after everything Daddy did for me, marrying her was the least I could do, and I did it. If it were a normal marriage to anyone else, I would have been married in St. Louis Cathedral, just like everyone else in the family, but this is politics, it had to be official. So we got married in the Church of Thieves with both our Guilds attending. Of course, still in full Catholic splendor. The church may be a farce, but we don’t fuck with God, even if I am the White Devil. It was beautiful, and I was happy enough, and we had our damned parade to our damned reception bullshit. And then it all comes crashing down.

“Not everyone wants peace, even when it’s the best option,” Remy says, his voice gone blandly contemplative. “It was obvious that our Guilds couldn’t war it out forever, tearing at the other’s throat. But Julien couldn’t see that. He wanted control of both, all to himself, to inherit the gifts each patriarch receives. He can’t have that if his sister and I are ruling the show. So he challenges me to a duel to the death. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t, so I did, and obviously I won. Except the price for killing Julien Bodreaux is to be exiled from my home.

“I can’t see my family,” Remy drove out, his voice hitching on the last word. “I can’t see be there for my sister-in-law’s birth, to meet my nephew for the first time. I can’t see the house ever again, or my room, or sit on the roof and look out over the grounds, to the city, to the bayous beyond. Can’t visit _Tante_ Mattie, can’t have dinner wit’ Papa and Henri and Mercy and li’l Oliver when he comes. I can’t – I _can’t_ –”

The dam bursts with violent force. One moment Remy is clinging with a vice to composure, and the next he’s folded in half, face pressed to his knees, jerking with violent sobs. Logan falters. Comfort isn’t natural to him, but he can’t let Remy shatter alone when it’s his fault it’s happening.

His hand is large against Remy’s back. He can feel the knobs of his spine through the slippery amethyst silk of his shirt. He rubs in aimless circles, but eventually brings both arms around him and bodily hauls the boy into him. Remy curls into a ball, hiding his face now in Logan’s shoulder. Logan just holds him against his chest, stroking his back, the soft hair on the crown of his head, whispering nonsense that even he doesn’t register. Outside the room, classical music plays loud over the noise on the street as the Bellagio fountain show begins.

As abruptly as it came, it stops. The sobs halt and Remy’s trembling subsides. He sucks in a tremulous breath and, as he gusts it out in a wavering sigh, he goes utterly limp. Logan’s aware of his shirt soaked in tears, but he can’t imagine moving Remy right now.

It's only when Remy pulls back that he lets him go. His face is blotched and wet, stray baby hairs sticking to his temples. His strange eyes are puffy and downcast. “Sorry,” he hitches out around still wavering lungs. “M’fine.”

“Bullshit. You don’t have to say anything else.”

Remy nods. His hands start to fidget again. But as always, Remy has to keep talking. “I’ve been running for so long,” he whispers. “They hunt me, to avenge their prince. Vegas is the only entirely neutral city. So I’m hiding here, until tensions cool a bit. After a few months I should be able to go other places. But I don’t think I’ll ever get to go home again.”

Exhaustion rolls off Remy in waves. Logan, remembering his first night in New Orleans, reaches over and starts to knead his shoulders. The young man’s eyes droop closed and, after a moment, he slumps a little. “Feels good,” Remy slurs. Logan just hums in response and continues to work at him.

Remy’s eyes stay closed, and eventually, with time, his breathing slows and deepens. Logan waits until he’s sure his friend has sunk into sleep before carefully, carefully, scooping him up in his arms. He carries him to the larger bedroom, where Remy has obviously been sleeping. The bed is neatly made, the room organized and clean, his scent filling the space with spice and sunshine and musk. Logan feels himself also relax, surrounded by such a small familiarity.

He manages to tug the covers back before setting Remy down. Tugs off his shoes and sets them aside neatly. Tucks Remy in. The delicate skin around his eyes and his cheeks are still blotchy, and tacky now from his dried tears. His hasty braid drapes over the pillowcase. Remy looks innocent in sleep – but also lost and lonely.

Logan brushes a hand over his cheek. “I’m sorry, Remy,” he whispers.

On his way out, Logan switches off all the lights. A quick blink of his eyes adjusts himself to the darkness, everything taking on tones of gray. He navigates to the guest room and collapses there. His mind whirls for a long time with the fact that, once more, he isn’t alone, he has a friend. Remy can help him, he’s sure of it. The tiny prickle of hope carries him off to sleep.

***

It's déjà vu - entirely.

Logan wakes screaming himself hoarse, pinned to the bed. Remy’s voice cuts through his roars of rage and fear and pain, dragging him back to reality. His claws retract and he’s aware, again, of Remy pinning him down. The tensile strength is the same, but the weight holding him is not.

They each pant in the quiet dark. Remy relaxes his grip, rolling off of Logan to prop himself up beside him. “Same nightmares?”

Logan nods in the dark. Remy gives a small, understanding hum, confirming Logan’s suspicions that those strange eyes somehow help the kid see in the dark. One of Remy’s fine-boned hands starts to stroke over his forearm; beneath the skin and muscle, between his radius and ulna, the claws seem to shiver and throb, as if they can feel the petting hand.

“I have my own,” Remy confesses in the dark between them. “Etienne haunts me, drowning in front of me half the times I close my eyes. Now Julien takes up the other half.” The thief lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Quite de pair, _non_? Two damaged bastards suffering through the night.”

Logan opens his mouth to agree, but instead says, “I slept better with you.”

Quiet. Then Remy’s voice, soft and small, “Me, too.”

The body next to him rises. Hands draw the covers back next to him. A long, lean body slides between the matress and the thin blanket Logan has over himself. Remy settles down, hesitates. Logan reaches across the space between them, fingers curling around his wrist, a small invitation, a silent plea. Remy wriggles close, his summer-sweet scent wrapping around Logan. Together they drift into the darkness of dreamless sleep.


	9. Duke it Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan finds a new person from his past. The answers they have don't sit well - especially with what he learns about Remy in the process.

Remy insists Logan stay with him. “Got plenty o’ room up here by my lonesome,” the Cajun declares over a luxuriant breakfast spread. “Can put all your things in the guest room, and your bike can go in de other reserved spot, she’ll be perfectly safe.” And really, Logan doesn’t have it in him to protest.

The rest of the morning he spends picking up his things. Saying goodbye to the seedy motel is no disappointment to him. Remy meets him at the drive into the Bellagio, dressed in simple jeans and a magenta shirt that is somehow still elegant on his tall frame. Large, black shades cover his eyes, and a smile beams as Logan pulls up. Remy gives a valet instruction about Logan’s bike and she’s whisked away to safety; inside, Remy charms the girl at the desk into giving Logan a spare key to the penthouse suite Remy is staying in. After that, they retreat upstairs.

Logan feels prickly, and not just from the bit of time out in the heat, though the drying sweat on his skin isn’t pleasant, either. He knows this feeling. It chases him ever and uproots him wherever he stops. Not even the familiarity of Remy can ward it off.

Remy notes his companion’s attitude. Back in the penthouse, he collapses onto the cozy couch. His long, graceful limbs fall about in a debonair sprawl. “Time for a plan, _mec_. You got those files still?”

Logan drops his duffel bag; he can unpack its meager contents later. He digs out the folders Remy had made for him. He ignores Creed’s with bitterness, instead tossing the younger man the file on one John Wraith.

Remy catches it easily and flips it open. “You’ve always been after Creed. Whenever you find him,” the Thief declares, “there’s likely to be blood. But John, here, you and he weren’t enemies. Maybe not friends, but you came together and, I imagine, would’ve worked together under different circumstances.”

“Different circumstances” seems like a funny way to talk about murder, Logan thinks, but doesn’t comment it out loud. Instead, he says, “Creed and Wraith both worked for Stryker, on some Team X according to the information you dug up. At least it seems he was out of touch with Stryker for a while, but why would I trust him?”

“Hard ta say. Maybe ya both had a bone to pick wit’ de man. I know I did – do.” Remy’s face darkens, hardens, making him seem even further from the youth Logan first met in New Orleans. But Remy doesn’t dwell on it, instead looks over the information on John Wraith. “Did you have a plan, _mon ami_? Or were ya jus’ gonna amble around Vegas like ya did New Orleans?”

Logan’s mouth twitches into a half smile. “Figured I’d head to that gym, subtly ask some questions.”

Remy looks up at him, brows arched in speculation. “Subtle, uh huh. Subtle as a sledgehammer, more like.”

“Hey!”

“ _Je suis désolé_ , Logan, _mais, c’est vrai*_. But I’m not opposed to helpin’ you out on this if ya ask real nice.”

“Oh yeah? And just how nice is real nice?”

Remy laughs at that. “No growlin’ for starters. Maybe some flattery…”

“Like your ego needs stroking.”

“Who knows, maybe my self-esteem took a recent hit.”

Logan falters there. Likely it has, given the story the Cajun relayed to him last night. “I would appreciate it,” Logan admits. “Besides, from what I hear, we make a pretty good team.”

Remy grins, sharp and devilish. “That we do. All right, you’ve convinced me. We head out tonight.”

***

It’s a modest little fitness gym that the pair wind up at that evening. The golden neon sign declares the place to be called “Spectre”. Remy applies some more of his natural and seemingly endless charm with the receptionist, flirting with the girl until she’s blushing. After that it’s easy for them to get inside. Logan rolls his eyes after. “Half expected you to drop this game and take her on a date after she clocks out.”

Remy looks back over his shoulder at her. “She’s got a while on her shift, dere’s plenty o’ time. But first, business. No chance you recognize dis place?”

Logan starts to shake his head, but… There’s that almost déjà vu feeling again. “Not really,” he finally decides. “It’s like where we met. I can almost remember, but not really.”

There’s a few gym rats floating about, but Logan doesn’t pay them much mind. His searching glances lead him towards the boxing area. And when the ring comes into view, Logan freezes.

This isn’t sort of déjà vu – it is déjà vu. There in the ring stands a mountain of a man. The figure does nothing as his opponent whales on him, all while a trainer hollers at him to do something, to wake up. The massive man seems to barely be present, except his head is turning, and his eyes are fixing on Logan, and as soon as they meet, Logan knows this man knows him. And he isn’t happy to see him.

The mountain opens his mouth. “You’ve got a lot of nerve comin’ back here, Logan.”

The one-sided boxing match freezes, but the trainer isn’t pleased. “We aren’t done here, Flob,” the man snaps. “Get your ass going.”

Dukes lumbers around to face his trainer. When he speaks again, his voice is the rumble of a rockslide. “Don’t call me Flob.”

The trainer grins. “Stop being a fat ass, then,” he replies.

Logan has half a mind to tell the man to shut it and save his skin. The other half has him turning to Remy, itching to tell him they should leave. Remy’s as frozen as the other boxer, the tan of his skin bled out to ash. His eyes are so wide Logan catches a glimpse of black sclera around his contacts. His thin hands dive into the pockets of his long coat, fumbling, searching for something.

The poor figure that had been beating on the man who by no means wants to be called Flob gives a sharp cry. Logan snaps back in time to see the boxer slam into the trainer, knocking both backwards to hit the nearby wall. That leaves only himself, a panicking Remy, and the mountain.

 _At least you’re coated in metal_ , Logan tells himself. It’s not much comfort.

The mountain leers, a spiky summit taunting a climber. “Get your ass in here, Logan! You and I are gonna dance again.”

Logan plants his feet. “Listen, bub, I don’t know you.”

The mountain laughs. “That’s a load of shit. You know me damn well. And your new tricks with that metal Stryker put in you won’t work this time.”

A hundred questions whirl in his mind, but the most important surges out of him first. “Why do you wanna fight me? The hell have I done to you?”

The man’s face turns a red so dark it could almost be purple. “You’re the reason John’s dead, and John was my friend. Your friend, too. All those years, and you thank him by walkin’ him right into death.”

“I didn’t mean for it–”

“Save it. Put on some gloves and let’s have our rematch.”

“You save it, Dukes,” a sharp voice cuts in.

Logan snaps back to Remy. He’s swallowed whatever has left him shaken, and while he’s not entirely himself again, his chin is up, and his face is set in a stubborn scowl Logan’s seen in mirrors on his own face.

Dukes, the mountain, has escaped his tunnel vision to regard Remy with sharp wariness in his small eyes. “Well I’ll be,” he rumbles, “Remy LeBeau, in the flesh. Seems the years were good to you.”

“No thanks to you,” Remy grates out. “Feel like takin’ a gamble? Or are you worried I’ll fleece you like I did everyone on the Island?” Dukes scoffs; Remy answers with a cold, sharp smile. He walks with the grace of a panther, stalking past Logan to the boxing ring; the long, brown duster he’d donned with the desert evening chill billows in his wake. “I’ll take Logan’s place. You and me, one on one. If you win, you can take your anger out on Logan here and we won’t stop ya. But if I win, you’re gonna answer some questions. And you won’t bother lyin’, cause I’ll know it.” He stops just outside the ring, head tipped back to look at his adversary. “What d’ya say, _mec_? You in?”

Dukes studies first Remy, then Logan, and Logan can guess what he’s thinking. Dukes knows Logan’s skeleton is coated in metal, so he knows Logan’s heavier than he looks, and his hits are, too. Remy, though taller than Logan, is at least a hundred pounds lighter. Dukes could sit on the kid and it’d be over that quick. Why face a three hundred fifty pound feral when you can take on a scrawny teenager? Dukes laughs, decided. “You’re on.”

Remy swings himself up into the ring and slinks into a corner. “So be it,” he declares.

Logan scrambles to Remy’s corner. One hand snags in the long tail of his brown coat. “Kid, don’t do this. I’ll take him-”

Remy reaches down and wrenches the coat from Logan’s grip. “I ain’t a kid,” he rasps. He reaches up and pops out his contacts, takes out a little travel container and puts them in. This he passes to Logan for safekeeping. When he dips back into one of his pockets, he pulls out a small, metal cylinder. His wrist snaps and it expands out into a long staff – a bō staff, Logan recognizes in that strange well of knowledge that remained intact. Not traditional by any means, it isn’t wood, but modernized into a stealthy, easily stashed weapon.

Dukes doesn’t protest Remy pulling out a weapon, and Logan can guess why. The staff looks light; he isn’t confident in it being able to do much against a man Dukes’ size. But Remy slips into a ready stance, poised as if at the start of a kata. Dukes raises his hefty arms in the standard boxer’s pose.

No bell rings, but the men stalk forward at the same time regardless. Logan watches, breath baited as the mountain shambles up to his friend.

One massive fist flies through the air. Remy ducks effortlessly. His staff spins outward, striking Dukes’ massive gut. The force of the blow makes his stomach jiggle.

Dukes leers down at Remy. “Tickles.” He lurches forward, this time going for an uppercut. Remy backflips away, coat swirling after him. Still in the air, he snaps out. This time the staff connects with the man’s head. Dukes staggers with the force and shakes his head like a dazed dog.

Remy lands and immediately lunges in. The staff whales on Dukes, hammering him with furious blows while he’s disoriented. As soon as Dukes starts to recover, Remy skips out of range.

Logan breathes out a faint laugh as he watches the duel. Dukes has miscalculated. Remy is faster than any human ought to be, more agile than even the finest Olympic gymnast; he dodges every blow Dukes hurls his way. Between his nimble footwork and the extended reach of his staff, Remy keeps mostly out of reach. This is no easy fight, and Dukes is sweating enough to darken most of his shirt and stick his militaristically short hair to his skull.

Except Dukes is growing angry now. He should have been able to swat Remy down like a bug. And though Remy hits him regularly, it clearly isn’t enough to hurt him. Logan can see the rage burning in the man’s deep-set eyes, a bull who the matador has evaded too many times. And with the same furious rage and deadly strength, Dukes lunges.

Remy tries to skitter to the side, but one massive glove connects with his shoulder. The blow is enough to collapse him – but he rolls with the momentum, crouching in a corner, staff held defensively in front of him. Remy’s teeth flash white in a feral snarl.

Dukes lumbers around, a beast pawing at the ground to charge its cornered prey. Remy’s free hand gropes behind him, wrapping around one of the leatherette ropes.

Dukes charges. Remy hauls himself upward, springing into the air, pulling himself back. His toes catch on the corner post, launching himself higher. His bō staff twirls over his head as he rises, swinging around so both hands grip it tight. Dukes looks up as Remy reaches his zenith, just in time to see him start hurtling down.

Logan almost thinks he’s imagining the glow around the staff, except it’s echoed in Remy’s flaming eyes. The kid screams out a warcry as he drops. The staff swings down, slamming against Dukes’ head so hard Logan can hear the crack. He can almost feel it, too, rippling outward, an earthquake tearing from its epicenter.

Remy drops into a perfect crouch. Dukes sways over him, teetering forward. Logan scrambles into the ring, ready to grab Remy to keep him from being crushed by the massive man. But Dukes tips backwards instead, collapsing onto the ring’s floor with so much force it shakes. Remy stands once the tremors cease, panting hard, sweat streaking his face and causing stray strands of auburn hair to stick to his skin.

Logan stops next to him, staring down at the man beneath them. “Christ,” he whispers. He’s barely convinced the man is alive, even though he can see him breathing clear as day. The force of that blow should have cracked his skull wide open.

Remy trembles beside him like the last autumn leaf in a winter gale. He’s still pale, the only color in his face the flush of exertion. This close Logan can’t help but catch his scent. Spice and heat, musky and familiar, but mixed with a sharp zing of ozone – and an acidic scent that doesn’t belong.

“He’s all yours,” Remy spits out. A flick of his wrist collapses his bō staff, and it disappears back into a pocket. “I need some fucking air.” Remy doesn’t wait for Logan to acknowledge him before he ducks out of the ring. Logan turns to watch him go, long legs devouring the floor, coat flapping after him.

A groan below him draws him back around. Dukes is starting to rouse. Logan bends down, grabbing him under the arms. The layers of fat are undeniable, but underneath is an impossible wealth of muscle. Logan grunts as he hauls Dukes around to prop him up in a corner of the ring. He gives one cheek a checked slap, then the other. “Wake up, bub,” he grates out. “You and I’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Dukes’ eyes flick open, hazy and unfocused. “Wha’ happ’d?” he slurs out, tongue drunk.

“Kid clocked you on the head and you went down.” Logan leans over him, ignoring the stink of his sweat. His hand curls over the rope, caging Dukes in. “I’m collecting.”

Dukes’ eyes focus on Logan. “Don’t you get sick of doing the same things over and over?” the mountain rumbles.

The words sting as hard as a belt. One hand jerks forward, fisting the sweat-soaked neck of his shirt, hauling at it hard enough to pull Dukes up. “Maybe I would if I had a memory,” he snaps. “But I don’t, so if we’ve done this before, shut your fucking mouth, bub.” He shoves backward and stands up; with Dukes sitting, he’s the one to loom over and glower down. “How’d you know Wraith?”

Dukes looks up at him for a few seconds, his mouth starting to curl into a sickening expression. It’s followed by a chortle. “No memory? You mean you don’t remember a damn thing?” At that, he laughs outright. “Well, isn’t that something. Seems Stryker fucked you up even worse than before.” He shifts his massive body into a more comfortable position.

“Tell me how you knew Wraith,” Logan repeats, stubborn as a mule in his quest for answers.

“Dammit, Logan, how do you think? Team X. We worked for Stryker.”

Tires spin in his mind. “What?”

Dukes stops to bite free the Velcro of one boxing glove. “Yeah. Back before he was experimenting on mutants openly, we were his special ops team. The team crumbled after our job in Africa, to find the adamantium he put in you.”

His claws throb at the word, the name of the unknown metal all over his bones. “When did the metal happen? What is it?”

“Far as I could piece together, right before you came to us. So, late spring of ’85. It’s adamantium,” Dukes explains. “Some metal alloy. Stryker found it in Africa. Supposedly it’s indestructible.”

Logan breathes out a slight snort to himself; he knew that last part already. “So what happened then? Obviously neither of you were still with Stryker.”

“No shit,” Dukes snorts. “John couldn’t stomach the new work, came back to his roots here and built this gym. I stayed on another few years, came here when I quit.” Dukes finishes taking off his gloves. “We managed. Or we did, until you came back around.”

The accusation stings. “I didn’t mean for John to get killed,” Logan says.

“You sure about that, Logan? You said it yourself, you don’t remember.”

Logan prickles. He isn’t sure, but he hopes he’s right. Besides, something isn’t adding up. “Why would I want someone who worked for Stryker to help me go after him? That doesn’t make much sense.”

Dukes’ stares up at him. Logan feels his lips curl in disgust at the bewildered look. “Am I missin’ out on something, slim?” he jeers.

“Damn, what did he do to you, Logan? You were one of us. You’re the reason the whole team fell apart, after you left in Africa, when we finally found the adamantium.”

Logan’s heartrate picks up, and a panicky thought slips into his mind. “What was the new work? What couldn’t John stomach? Special ops is dirty enough.”

“Cleaner than going after our own kind. You think a man who experiments on mutants is gonna risk precious human life on catching them?”

Logan thinks of Remy’s acidic fear and anxiety. His head whips around towards the exit, then back to Dukes. “You. You caught Remy, didn’t you?”

“Wasn’t the only one who did it,” Dukes rumbles out. “Remy LeBeau is a hard fish to catch. But yeah, I was on the team, with Victor and Zero. I’m not proud of that work, Logan. John was even less so. Figure he went with you partly in hopes of redeeming himself, mostly to stop Stryker from doin’ any more hurt to mutants – and to save our asses from Victor. He was goin’ around, killin’ the other team members. Is that who killed my friend? Was it Victor?” Dukes barks out a brittle laugh before Logan can reply. “Don’t know why I’m askin’ you. You don’t remember.”

He wants to ask Dukes if he ever helped catch mutants, but he doesn’t trust the man enough to tell him the truth on that. “And I was after Stryker for revenge? For what he did to me?”

“Maybe. Probably. When I explained Stryker and Victor were working together, you were distraught. Mentioned something about experimentation and a girl who got killed. But who could ever say what you were thinkin’? You’re a closed book, Logan. Only Victor ever knew, and even sometimes he could only guess.” Dukes shakes his head. “Victor damn near lost his mind after you left, you know. He was never the same after.”

That doesn’t make sense, either. “Why did Creed care about me leaving?”

Dukes blinks at him, struck dumb it seems by Logan’s empty mind. “Of course he cared,” Dukes rumbles out. “Victor’s your brother.”

***

The desert air hits him like bricks, the gym door slamming after him. He’s breathing hard, eyes flickering, unable to latch onto anything. Dukes’ words clap against the bell of his brain, repeating their toll over and over. _I worked for Stryker. Victor Creed is my brother. I wanted to kill my own brother._

He stumbles around the corner of the building. In the shadow of the unlit side, he presses his hands to the wall and hands his head. His fingers splay wide, wrists bent sharp; the claws can’t spring out this way. He breathes hard, panting in the dry, dark heat.

“Hey.”

Remy’s croaking voice snaps his head around. Logan can see in the dark just fine, and can easily make Remy out where he crouches in the dark. A cigarette is jammed between his lips, the glow at the tip barely enough to illuminate his face.

Remy takes a shaky drag before pulling the cig from his lips. His eyes tip up to Logan. “Find what you were lookin’ for?” he asks, smoke billowing with the words.

Logan doesn’t know what he’s going to say when his mouth opens. “I’ll tell you later,” he finally manages. He looks at Remy closer. The lean body is wracked with shivers. “Are you cold?”

Remy’s eyes clamp shut. His head jerks in a shaky nod. “Seein’ Dukes brings back memories,” Remy rasps. “Of the Island – Three Mile Island, it was called.”

Something clicks in Logan’s memory. “Wasn’t that the nuclear energy plant that had a meltdown in the seventies?”

“One and de same. No one wanted to be there. Perfect place to store mutants and test on ‘em in secret. It’s up north in Pennsylvania.” A massive shiver wracks Remy’s thin frame. “Dukes was one o’ the folks to bag and tag me. Creed was, too. Was three of ‘em – Dukes, Creed, and some other guy with a couple o’ guns and aim about as good as mine. Zero, maybe? Long story short, dey caught me and hauled me up there. Threw me in a cage in a warehouse unless Stryker was doin’ his tests. Put me in a massively electrified one, couldn’t touch it to blow myself free. I was dere all through the winter. You know how cold it gets in Pennsylvania in de winter? De snow?

“De heat in de warehouse wasn’t much,” Remy continues, his voice dropping to a whisper. His arms come around himself tight. “My powers helped me keep warm. If I could snatch some debris, I could make a li’l fire to keep warm. But de others… Dey couldn’t. I saw a kid in a cage next to mine freeze to death a day at a time. I thought I’d be next.” His voice cracks on the sentence and he huddles into a tight ball. “Can still feel it,” he whispers, “the cold, it’s so damn _cold_ -”

Logan scrambles out of his leather jacket, drops to a crouch in front of Remy. He drapes it over the shaking shoulders and pulls it tight. “Remy,” he rasps, shaking him. “Remy, open your eyes. You aren’t there. You’re in Nevada, in Vegas. It’s hotter’n Hell, Rem, come on, come back here.”

The black and red eyes flutter open, fix on his face. “I know that,” he whispers. “But I can’t. I can’t ever forget it. I wanna forget it so bad, but I can’t.”

Logan doesn’t know what to do, so he does the first thing that comes to mind. He unwraps the thin arms from around the thin body, shoves them into each sleeve. Pushes Remy’s legs down so he can zip the jacket up. It hangs odd on Remy’s greyhound body, but the kid gives a different kind of shiver and a little sigh as Logan does the snap at his throat. He can imagine the warmth seeping through Remy’s clothes and into his skin; Logan’s body runs hot, and he knows the jacket absorbed and trapped that heat, and now is releasing it to Remy.

But the hands he grabs are cold to the touch. Logan frowns, sharp as his claws. He cups first one hand in both of his. Rubs it a bit rough, forcing warmth into the chilled skin. Repeats the process on the other hand. When he takes them again, they’re a bit warmer, enough for now. He pulls Remy to his feet.

Remy is still quivering, but not as badly. He looks absurd with the short jacket worn over his long, long duster. But the look he gives Logan is one of dazed appreciation. Logan ignores the twist of his heart.

“C’mon,” he grumbles, “let’s get you home.”

***

Remy immediately showers when they return to the penthouse. As he does, Logan pours them each a drink. He isn’t sure telling Remy what he’s learned after his episode is necessarily right. But if it will come between them, drive them apart, he wants it to happen now, before it will hurt any worse than it already will.

Remy reappears dressed for bed and bundled into a heavy terrycloth robe, drying his long hair with a towel. He sinks onto the couch with a sigh. “ _Merci_ , Logan,” he murmurs, “for everythin’ tonight. You’re a good friend.”

“I’m not so sure ‘bout that, Rem,” he replies. He presses the glass of bourbon into Remy’s hand. “Dukes told me some things. You aren’t gonna like ‘em.”

Remy smiles a slight, fae smile. “Lemme guess. You worked for Stryker, didn’t you?”

Logan’s jaw drops. Remy laughs before taking a quick drink. “What else would I hate ta hear?” he asks. “Besides, I’d already considered de possibility.”

Remy scoots over to him. Nimble fingers snag on the chain around Logan’s neck, pulling the dog tags out once more. The Cajun gives them a slight tug. “Creed was wearing tags like these when he caught me. Dat’s where I saw ‘em. When I saw you wearin’ tags, I thought you were Stryker’s new dog, sent to catch me again. But you weren’t, you never were.”

Logan pulls away, shifts back, retreats into himself. “You can’t know that for sure.”

“I can take a damn good guess,” Remy protests. “If Stryker had had you in ’83, you would’ve been on dat team to come after me. But you weren’t. You’d left before then. I’m sure of it. Just ‘cause you have tags like Creed doesn’t mean you worked in that time.”

Creed. That brings up Dukes’ other major revelation about Logan’s past. Remy deserves to know, given his past with the man. But Logan’s put him through enough already this night, he can’t bring himself to deliver another traumatic blow. Besides, Dukes could have been lying; the only person who can verify it for certain is Creed himself. Wherever the fucking bastard is.

Remy still has a hand on Logan’s tags. He’s looking at them closer, mouthing something to himself. Logan can hear his voice, little more than a sigh of breath, reading the numbers off the tag. Remy suddenly brightens. “Or course!” he says, looking up at Logan with a grin. “Dese numbers, they’re _you_. If I could hack into Stryker’s database again, I could search these numbers, find you in his system.”

Logan’s stomach lurches. “You could?”

“Probably. I don’t know when, I don’t have de tech anymore. I used Daddy’s system to find the info I gave you before, and, well.” His smile turns to something as bitter as hard whiskey. “But sometime, if I can get access to some big computers again, I could.”

If Remy does, who knows what he’ll find? Surely it will involve his potential relation to Creed. “You really don’t have to,” Logan protests. “Dukes said Creed knew more about me than everyone else on the team. I just gotta find him, pry it outta him.”

“Good luck wit’ dat. De bastard probably knows you’re still after him. Gonna be three steps ahead de whole time.”

“It’s worth a shot, isn’t it? Besides, Dukes said Stryker is the one who did this to me.” He taps his forearms, where the claws sit at rest. “Doubt he kept personal history on his experiment subjects.”

Remy hesitates, but nods slowly. “Prob’ly not. Still, if I get the chance, I’m lookin’.” The Cajun sinks more comfortably into the couch, and his head drops onto Logan’s shoulder. “Thank you again,” he murmurs. “Haven’t had anyone look after me like you did tonight in a while.”

Logan doesn’t resist the urge to wrap an arm around Remy. His scent is back to normal, mingling with the perfume of his soap and shampoo. “What else are friends for, eh?”

“Dat mean you always gonna have my back?”

Logan smiles. “Yeah. I’ve got you, Remy. Always.”

It isn’t a surprise when shortly after, Remy’s breathing slows and deepens to sleep. Logan stays where he is, letting Remy rest, thinking what kind of friend he is for keeping the secret of his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * translation: I'm sorry, Logan, but it's true.
> 
> Also yes this chapter title was a terrible pun.


End file.
